My chest is really bad today. I don’t want you to worry, but just in case the will is in the bottom drawer of the dresser.
Karina had texted once each day, as agreed, and would continue to do so until things had settled. She said that Mum was weepy and withdrawn, but physically fit and well. She’d reluctantly agreed to teach another embroidery course, and Linda had taken her out for Sunday dinner.
Before I left, I had patiently explained to Mum that if she bombarded me with messages, I would block her number. She had demanded to know what ‘bombarded’ meant, so I had told her that more than a couple of text conversations and one call a day was excessive, at least while we were getting used to things. She’d mocked me for being a control freak, but I’d anticipated what was coming and didn’t want to block her without warning.
Silencing the constant beeps was like ditching a forty-pound rucksack. With the security of knowing Karina would tell me if an emergency arose, for the first time in twenty years I could stop mothering my smothering mother, and pay some attention to me.
But like I said, the crunch point came on Thursday.
I’d been interviewing potential reading coaches for most of the day, using a hired room in the Nottingham Central Library. The regional manager, Alec, had been interviewing with me, and he’d waffled on so much that every interview had overrun. Once the final candidate had left, he’d then wanted to go over each one in detail, despite the fact that it was obvious which three would be best for my team. Before I could make up some excuse to leave, it was after five thirty.
‘I’m so sorry, I really appreciate you taking the time to talk this all through with me, but I have to get on.’ I was going to be massively late for dinner, and anxiety about needing to get home was crackling in my veins.
‘Oh?’ Alec sat back in his chair, as though settling himself in for a thorough discussion about why I needed to leave. ‘Have you got plans?’
But before I could try to fudge some sort of explanation about how we always ate at six, it hit me.
I’d eaten dinner at six o’clock on the dot every night that week. I’d even paused the middle of a TV thriller, at the moment the main character was literally hanging off a cliff, because it was dinner time.
I was feeling stressed about being late to cook and eat a meal by myself, despite having nothing to do the rest of the evening, except yet more paperwork that could quite happily wait until the morning.
What was to stop me having dinner at seven? Or eight?
Or how about this wild suggestion – I could order a takeaway!
I could stay in town, and go to a restaurant alone. Without telling anybody.
I could do whatever I liked.
‘Hello, Ollie? Are you all right?’ Alec asked, waving a hand in front of my face.
‘Yes, thank you.’ I grabbed my bag and cardigan. ‘And no, I’ve got no plans whatsoever, so to be honest, I’m absolutely fantastic!’
I had dinner at six forty-five, because I was getting hungry. I ate a giant slice of coconut cake while the pasta boiled, because I felt like it, and I left my dirty plate in the living room all night, because I could, and no one was there to moan about it.
I was free.
I was free.
The following day, still simmering with possibilities, I met my first new reader for an hour-long introductory session in the Bigley Bottom library. ReadUp coaching was always held in public places, for safeguarding reasons, so I’d reserved us a table in the computer area.
I’d spoken to Trev on the phone, and recognised him immediately by how he nervously stepped into the library, eyeing the room as though it might detect an imposter. It wasn’t the books he needed to be wary of, but their fearsome guardian, Irene Jenkins, library manager at large.
She’d been initially snooty about the prospect of me meeting with ‘illiterates’ in her precious library. I’d pointed out that the whole purpose of a library was to encourage people to read, and she snapped back something about how her library was for those who appreciated and respected literature; it wasn’t a hang-out for school drop-outs. A quick chat with one of the directors for Notts libraries, who’d presented ReadUp with an award only the previous year, soon reminded her that this was not, in fact, her library but a public building, and we were welcome to further the literacy skills of local residents whenever the library was open.
‘Ms Tennyson, I believe your person is here.’ Irene Jenkins sniffed, glaring over the top of her bifocals.
In the hope of avoiding any interaction between Trev and Irene, I’d already rushed over to meet him, hoping my friendliest smile would deflect her waves of distaste at Trev’s tatty tracksuit topped off with a bald head covered in a skull tattoo.